Bloom of Bruises
by D R O W N-I N-S E Q U I N S
Summary: Here's the thing, it's not really her fault. It's just the way these things turn out for her. Oneshot.


**So... I'm not dead? Sorry I haven't uploaded anything for over a year? Surprise? I miss all of you guys and would really love to hear from all of you. I would really really love feedback on this (wink wink, nudge nudge) since it's the first thing I've finished in like forever and also because I really do love Pansy and Draco and would like to know what you think of them. Somebody once told me that they'd expect me to be a Luna/Draco fan but I'm really not and if you'd like to discuss favorite Harry Potter couples I'd love to, but be warned I hold strong opinions. **

**Also this story has some abuse in it and I just want to say that abuse is a lot more complicated than it's made out to be in the story (I have had many friends with abusive boyfriends and take the topic very seriously and would like you to know that the issue is simplified in this story). And if anybody would like to talk about that then I'd be more than willing to. Enough of my rant. Happy reading (oh and if you haven't before, please r&r my other HP story, China Doll Love which is about Narcissa and Draco) and pleasepleaseplease review!**

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><p>The thing is, she really does love him. Even if it's selfish and twisted and broken, it is love and she wishes (upon stars and at 11:11 and all sorts of foolish clichés) that he'd love her back. But he doesn't. It's just the way these things turn out for her.<p>

…

The first time she sees him, he's just a pretty little boy who is a little too bright for her eyes. That pale hair and pale skin blind her a little, awe her a little and even though it hurts (maybe because it hurts) she can't keep her eyes off of him. Maybe if she hadn't been a foolish little girl with stars in her eyes and ribbons in her hair, maybe if she had been a little older, a little more mature, a little more jaded, maybe then it all would have turned out differently the first time they met (or maybe not, maybe she was destined to be his Long Time Ago love, written in the atmosphere and heavens to be his plaything).

She remembers smoothing down her dress as her mother leads her to him. She has been told over and over that day, that this means everything, _he _means everything (and she believes her parents as soon as he burns her eyes). His hand grips hers and from that moment on, she's his (his friend, his confidante, his lover, his his his) but he isn't hers (not even close) and she knows this in the way his gaze pierces her and she looks down. She's too young to understand society rules and social expectations but his gaze makes her feel so very tiny and that's enough for her to understand that she is powerless and is best to do as he says.

He sits next to her on a settee and their mothers voices carry over them with gossip and tinkling (hallow) laughs, punctuated by the delicate sound of china being filled with tea. She's always loved playing tea but somehow it's not so fun here, with this pretty little boy who makes her stomach jump into her throat and her mother's sharp gaze prodding her to make the untouchable boy like her. He makes her nervous and she stutters and trembles (she just wants him to like her _so so so badly_) and her mother's disapproving glare just makes her shake harder.

She tries to pour him some tea (tries so desperately hard to be the girl her mother always wanted) but she's so nervous and her hands are shaking so badly that a drop spills on her perfect white (so blindingly bright like his skin and smile and hair and he burns her with his brightness and she doesn't think she deserves any of it) dress. Tears wallow in her eyes and she desperately reaches for the tablecloth, rubbing on her dress, begging for it to come out but instead it just dirties up the perfectly white tablecloth and it feels like she ruins everything. She doesn't want to cry (not in front of him, he's so absolutely saintly she knows he must never be weak and cry) but it's so hard and she's so embarrassed so she bites her lip instead. Naturally, she bites it too hard and the taste of blood pools in her mouth. She reaches up, to smear it away.

"Don't," his long delicate fingers close around her wrist (they're soft and warm and oh so comforting that later on she won't even mind the bruises marring her delicate skin and maybe that's the beginning or the end or the whole damn story) and his voice is that of somebody much older. It's low and demanding and almost like being told to do something by her father. She looks up in surprise to find his steely eyes drilling into her mud brown (and everything about him is so strong and she's just so weak but it's so clear to her that he'll protect her forever and ever, even as he breaks her) ones. His other hand reaches up towards her face and he delicately blots the blood away from her thin lips. She smiles and he smiles back. She can see her mother beaming happily from the corner of her eye. In this moment everything is absolutely perfect because he is absolutely perfect.

Here's the thing, she's just a naïve little girl and he's a little boy whose just a little too bright for her and it's not really her fault at all.

…

As they grow older, he grows more perfect. They are always together (she doesn't mind so much) as their mothers discuss things over tea and she is forever trying to impress him. They are at her manor one day, practicing tea in her playroom as they always do (she tries to follow the rules because she knows if she could just obey that everything would turn out the way its meant to be) when he tugs on her arm (electric shoots all the way to her fingertips and toes) and he whispers in her ear "Would you like to have some fun." She nods earnestly and the smile he gives her in return lights her insides on fire.

He manages to distract the house elf with some excuse and then they are slipping outside, into the vast unknown of her own estate. Her giggles seem to echo outside, in the outdoors. She's never been outside alone before, never been unsupervised really, and she's never felt so free or reckless or careless (she never feels quite that free or reckless or careless again but when she's around him he gives her a glimmer and that's enough) and the feeling is slightly addicting.

She runs and laughs loudly (in a way that would get such disappointed looks from her mother) and he watches her, the corners of his mouth turning up. They venture farther and farther until they are in a meadow of wild flowers. She twirls and dances and shrieks because she can (and she will never be able to again) while he sits in the grass with the sweetest smile on his face. The sun warms her hair and her toes and the ice already running through her veins (when she gets older this is the only time she'll ever remember not having ice instead of blood) and it makes him shine even brighter and she can't look at him or he'd melt her straight through.

"I think I'd like to be a fairy," she declares. She knows it's silly (she is a child but she is expected to act like an adult but it is all so hard). He nods his head in amusement.

"But fairies are such vile little things and you are so lovely," his words leak into her soul and this is always how she'll like to think he perceives her. As lovely.

"Oh but they get to live in meadows! Surrounded by such pretty things. I think I should like to always be surrounded by such pretty things, don't you?" she says it the way her mother talks to important men her father brings for dinner. She thinks she sounds so very sophisticated and grown up and she wonders if he'll adore her for it (she so wants his adoration, the same way she wants father's and mother's but she thinks maybe he'll actually give her what she's been so desperately craving).

"I think you should be the Queen of flowers. It fits your name after all," he announces as he puts a crown of them upon her hair. They are twined together and she didn't even notice him making it but she feels so very lovely, like a real Queen. She parades around the meadow and for the rest of the evening she pretends she is the Queen of flowers and it is the memory that she uses to produce her patronus.

They eventually get caught by a house elf and they are scolded by their mothers. As their mothers drone on about their foolishness and carelessness he catches her eye and smiles and butterflies flutter about her stomach and she doesn't care that she's in trouble really at all.

He thinks she's the Queen of Flowers and that's all that really matters.

…

She likes his smooth voice, the way words fall elegantly from his tongue as if they are the only words that will do, she likes the way it folds around her and protects her from the world beyond him (if there is a world beyond him, she's not quite sure there is). She likes the way that it'll lilt in a way to let others know that he is better, he is their superior. When he talks to the help, talks to those not truly worthy of him, there is a sneer in his undertone that make it clear exactly where he stands. When he talks to men that he will one day join there is a somber element as if he knows his duty and carries it with him already and then there are the boys that are his equal but not quite. There is a demanding element then, an air of leadership and she watches as they bow to him in reverence. When he talks to her it's almost a whisper, as if she is delicate glass that can shattered or precious lace easily ripped. And when others are around, it is clear in his voice that she is his (in the end it is his voice that traps her, ensnarls her into his web and she hears it echo forever in the back of her mind).

It's at another (they're never ending and maybe her life is one endless obligation to being a gracious hostess or charming guest) tea one day that it is made clear that she is his alone to do as he pleases. It is at her house and she is a clumsy hostess (she can never seem to do the important things right) and he snipes at her as she makes mistake after mistake. She is close to tears and her hands are shaking as she tries to pour the tea into Astoria's teacup. Theodore is looking at her with something close to sympathy but the boredom overshadows it and Daphne is practically snarling at her. She manages to pour the tea but ends up knocking the biscuits into Goyle's lap and he jumps up, cursing furiously at her and Daphne snorts. She bursts into hysterical tears and then he is standing up.

"Do not talk to her that way Goyle," his voice is low and full of malicious promises (this feels like love to her, the way he defends her) if he is disobeyed, "Snorting is awfully unladylike Daphne, really unattractive."

He leads her out of the room and into the bathroom where he sweetly dries her tears with a cloth towel. His sweetness makes her cry harder (he is so pure and good and all she can seem to do is mess up). He listens to her as she rambles her apologies, hiccupping unappealingly at the end. When she finishes her pathetic (it's the only way she does things) rambling he leads her back into the room. For the rest of the evening she is a smiling, graceful hostess and he keeps the conversation smooth and flowing. Nobody mentions the incident and they are all overly gracious to her.

At the end of the night he kisses her cheek and turns to her mother and says, "I had a wonderful evening, it was impossible not to with such a gracious hostess." Her parents beam at her and flutter around her lovingly. She can't quite remember the last time everything seemed to be painted so perfectly and love blooms into her veins as she meets his steely eyes (she falls in love with his harsh gaze, his callous words, the shadows of his heart in this very moment). He leaves then but she can still practically feel his presence surround her.

This is when she begins to believe she needs him, that without him, that without his voice to guide her, she is nothing but a bumbling, foolish girl.

…

Years pass and she is always hovering near him. She feels like an accessory at times, constantly at his side, smiling and laughing and doing all the things a girl ought to do. Sometimes he rewards her with a kind word or a soft touch but mostly she seems to displease him. She is always too loud, too forward, too clumsy. His eyes cut to her and she feels herself shriveling into her own skin.

A part of her is aware that her entire life is devoted to others wants. However, mostly she is so focused on trying (and failing, she's just so clumsy and so silly and it's all just so hard) to gain an elusive smile from those she wants to please so badly. This is not to say that she is a Saint, she is an entirely selfish girl and all she wants is to shine for them (for father and mother and that bright boy) but somehow she is always a bit too dull, a bit to blended in the background.

They are at a ball and people swirl around her like smoke (wispy and fragile and choking her) but she stays faithfully at his side. Her dress is soft and sparkly, it was made to be showcased in, twirled around and around until the stars seem to blend in a spotlight for her but he does not feel like dancing so she stills her anxious feet and paints a smile onto her hopeful lips. Grown ups like to talk to him, he is so very much like a miniature gentlemen and they find amusement at his serious decorum.

An older man is talking to him (but she is not listening because they are talking politics and ladies don't need to know such serious, dreadful things) but then he mentions Hogwarts and she is excited. "Oh!" she interrupts breathlessly, "I go to Hogwarts too! I was so pleased to find that he'd be going with me. We do have so much fun there," she sends an adoring look his way but his jaw clenches and unease bubbles inside of her.

"Father and I were thinking of Durmstrang but mother would prefer that I am closer to home," he talks to the gentlemen like she doesn't exist at all, dread spreads through her and it gets harder to breath the more nervous she gets. She tries to rest her hand on his arm but he turns just enough that it glides right off, he has snubbed her and she does not know what she has done to make him so angry. It goes on like this for the rest of the night until they are waiting in the hall for their cloaks. Their parents are still mingling with the other guests so it is just them under the twinkling chandelier (she feels a bit like a Princess which is silly because he is so angry and she is so imperfect).

She is working up the courage to ask him how she has upset him so and planning an apology for her offense in her head when his head snaps towards hers. "What makes you think that I will allow you to make a fool of me?" rage seems to simmer underneath his pale skin, his blue veins pounding. His posture is rigid and it is clear to her (because she's young and stupid but she's been here so many times before) that he is trying not to physically lash out.

"I… I," she begins to stammer and nervously takes a step back, knocking into a small table, a vase begins to wobble and she steadies it before she can make a bigger mess of things (it seems to be the only thing she does well). His eyes darken and his fingers grasp onto her wrists (she loves when he grabs her wrists, even if he's angry, especially if he's angry) and they tighten painfully.

"No excuses?" he spits out venomously, "No denial or mind games?" Her stomach seems to leap into her throat and she feels as though she might be sick. He yanks her closer to him, his body pressed against hers (it's not romantic at all like in the pretty books she sometimes finds but it's real and it's him and that's enough). His eyes blaze into hers and all she can see is hurt surrounding him. She wants to apologize and smooth his hair and chase away all the darkness lurking at the edges but she knows he wouldn't be pleased.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to be so stupid. I never do," her eyes begin to well with tears and she feels so foolish (she can never do anything right, not even apologize) but his fingers relax and his features soften. His other hand lifts up and his fingers push back her hair gently.

"I know you don't. You just shouldn't interrupt me. I can't have people questioning my authority. I forget that you are a girl and don't know any better," he smiles and for the first time, underneath the dim chandelier and tucked away in a room all alone, she realizes that he isn't as bright anymore. That the years have stolen some of it away but he's still so dreadfully beautiful that it's hard to look at him, she doesn't deserve him. Her father comes then, whisking her away.

Later that night, bruises will start to bloom on her wrists and all she'll see is evidence that somebody cares enough to try and make her perfect.

…

The grass itches her skin but she pretends it doesn't because he looks so pretty surrounded by green. He is lying back in an intentionally casual pose. One arm is propping up his head and he has one knee bent up toward the sky, he looks for all the world like a King, enjoying his grounds and she knows (because she knows everything about him, he is endlessly fascinating) that, that is the point entirely. The sun hits his pale skin and his pale hair and his pale eyes and he's blinding the world (it's not fair, they don't deserve him, he's too beautiful and pure and they don't understand him at all) with his beauty.

She chatters mindlessly (he likes her best when she's empty maybe because she listens better then maybe because he can mold her better then maybe because she is not so irritatingly herself then) on about inane topics and it's nice to be near him. He absentmindedly begins to play with her hair, the colors catching in the sunlight and she feels beautiful. It starts in the pit of her stomach and snakes its way up through her veins until it feels like she's glowing. Her voice becomes lighter and she can feel her skin stretching tightly across her face. He looks up into her and his eyes cut into her so easily (because he is strong and she is weak and this is how it's always been, how it'll always be) and his eyebrow quirks up.

"Are you happy?" his voice is low and it creeps over her skin and warms her bones like a sunrise but something grates against her nerves. There's the tiniest hint of desperation underneath all the layers of upbringing and perfectionism and everlasting facades. His shoulders have tensed ever so lightly but it's enough for her to recognize that he is anticipating her answer. She is not sure if she should be pleased that he cares about the words from her lips or distressed that he should feel any version of uneasiness.

"Of course. I'm yours, aren't I?" she tries to sound whimsical (she so badly wants this all to play out like in all the pretty stories but she's never quite right for any of the parts) but her voice is too light and she sounds like a silly girl. She wants to pry. Wants to beg him to bare his soul, she can handle the darkness (she grew up in the darkness and a little more is going to do no difference) despite what he thinks.

He drops her hair and pulls away from her. He looks towards the sun and all she can see is the edge of him illuminated in a light so blinding that he looks like a mirage, a entire halo. "Don't you ever want more?" he is growing distant and despair claws at her veins, ripping her apart, she cannot lose him.

"What more is there?" she is on the verge of hysteria and her hands clutch onto his clothes. The fabric buttery against her skin, they slip off. She doesn't understand what is going on with him. Doesn't know how to it seems the more she fights for him, the farther he seems to slip. The darkness seems to always be at the edges, ready to steal him away from her at any moment.

He turns then and looks at her. His eyes roam all over, as if seeing her for the first time and taking in every detail. She feels naked and ugly, she wants to flee and hide. Her mind begins preparing a mental list of all the flaws he must be seeing (he's so perfect and she's not and she always hoped he'd never find out). His eyes finally meet her own and he pauses. The green grass, the blue sky, the people in the distance, all of it fades away and it's just him and her, suspended in a moment. It's a defining moment, she can feel it and she begins to reverently hope that she passes. Then his lips part and the sky crashes around her. His voice is almost a hush, as he says, "Nothing, absolutely nothing."

It's a lie but she promises herself that it means that he loves her enough to shield her from the darkness that's creeping within him, she cries that night anyways.

…

People don't understand him (don't see his beauty, are blinded by his bright perfection) they don't understand her (she doesn't deserve him she just knows it) or them at all. She likes to think that nobody knows him quite like she does. They see him for the show he puts on (he's a lovely little pretender, the best she's ever seen and it's all she ever really has seen). They see a boy trying to be a man, they see him bending to his father's will, they see him playing puppet master to all of his friends (they are all his toys and she doesn't mind as long as she is the favorite). She sees him though.

The bed feels fluffy beneath her and she stares at him (it's the one thing that can keep her attention, he's so bright and shiny just like everything else she loves) as they lounge about. They're in his room and it is empty besides them, she likes it best when it's just them. He is thumbing through a book, his head cushioned by her stomach and her fingers twist through his platinum strands, raking her nails across his scalp in the just the way he likes. She thinks she could do this forever.

He sets the book down gently before turning his face into her stomach and nuzzling, "You smell good, it's distracting." He murmurs this quietly and the low timbre of his silky voice sends butterflies erupting through her veins and fluttering in her belly. She lets out a giggle.

"Oh? Well then I guess my goal is accomplished," she teases lightly. He tilts his head up from her stomach and raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in question. He looks so positively adorable that joy spreads throughout her body and it feels like she may float away.

"Goal? What goal would that be, my devious girlfriend?" he says devious like a prayer (when he talks to her like this it's the closest to religious that she supposes she'll ever get) and her blush spreads across her cheeks at the word girlfriend (he only says it when they're alone but she likes to think it's because she's too precious for other's ears).

"My goal to keep all your attention on me of course," she taps his noise with her finger playfully and he swiftly nips it lightly in response. She's surprised by his playfulness (he is such a serious boy, already a man) but is always delighted when he is like this around her.

"I'd have to say that you succeeded. Although my attentions are rarely on anything else," he says it so smoothly, as if it were fact. He's always been a sweet talker (and she falls for his lies every time).

"How do you manage to get anything done?" she asks in mock exasperation but her smile gives her away (he would know even if she didn't smile, he plays her for the fool she is).

"I only do anything to impress you, so even when I'm doing something else it's you on my mind," she laughs then. Her laugh seems to start from her toes and go on and on and on and it's only him that ever can make her laugh this way (ever fill her with joy at all).

"You are a charmer. I don't know what I shall ever do with you," she grasps his (oh so pretty) face in her hands and their eyes meet. His are still steely but there is a layer of giddiness in them and it makes her heart swell to know that she can make him feel a fraction (such a tiny portion) of what she feels for him.

"I can think of a few things," he kisses her then. It's a sweet kiss, full of promises (pretty painted lies) and hope. He pulls her face down even lower and kisses her forehead after and then stands up, "You're so good to me." He whispers (it's almost wistful but she doesn't want to know why) and then he holds his hand out to her. She grabs it eagerly and intertwines their fingers together as he leads her out.

She doesn't say it but she knows that no matter how good she is to him, he'll always be too good for her.

…

She thinks she may hate mudbloods and blood traitors even more than he does. It starts when she's young (just the way it does for any good pureblood family) as her father and mother whisper all the horrible things about them (dirty, tainted, unclean, sullied, diseased, filthy, scum, the list goes on and on). Her hatred grows as she does, as she sees them make fools of themselves as she sees them run around with no manners, no dignity. And then, and then she hates them for what they do to him.

They make him so very unhappy. She thinks that he shouldn't have to go near them, they (those vile creatures) don't deserve to be in his presence. Then there are the specific ones. The ones that boil his blood and make the simmering (it's always there, it's just sometimes deeper under the surface) rage bleed over. The putrid Golden Trio (they have it all, a mudblood, a half-blood and a blood traitor) with their smug smiles and unearned fame. They make him so very angry and she hates (from the very pit of her soul, from the darkest recesses of her mind) hates them for what they make him become.

She is alone in the common room, happily (she is always in a good mood when she is empty) flipping through a book for beauty charms, when he comes thundering. She can automatically tell that something has gone wrong by rigidness of his shoulders, the clenching of fists, the muscle twitching in his jaw. "What happened?" she whispers quietly (desperately) trying not further his anger.

"Just Harry _bloody _Potter," he stalks towards her (she feels a bit like a trapped gazelle watching a lion come closer) and then sees the book in her hand, "reading ways to make yourself prettier? I don't believe the ones your using now are working, maybe these will finally help." He's sneering and her heart is splitting open and falling into her gut.

"That is uncalled for," she springs off of the settee, fury fueling her to stand toe to toe with him, "Just because you're upset doesn't mean that you need to be cruel." She goes to spin around but his fingers fold around her upper arm like a vise and he yanks her body towards his.

"Cruel? I'm being honest, and don't think you can just walk away from me," his face is in hers now and his warm breath is hitting her lips. Their eyes lock and his are still so cold (they remind her steel time and time again) and this just makes her angry. Angry that even in his rage he doesn't slip from his calm and she wants to push him until he cracks and she can finally have all the pieces of him.

"I will do as I please, now let go of me," she tries to free herself from his grip but her struggling is for nothing.

He grips her other arm and holds her pressed up against him, allowing no movement on her behalf and he laughs in her face, "No, you will do as I please. You always do. It's pathetic really, how you simper at my feet, waiting for my request. You're my little toy and everybody knows it, even you know it."

"Stop it," she's begging now (always begging).

"See, look at how pathetic you are. I don't even want you anymore," he throws her from his body then. She stumbles backwards from the force and surprise before catching herself. She swoops her things into her arms before strutting towards the staircase.

"That's fine because after this little display you're hardly desirable. I think I'd prefer if you kept your distance since you insist on behaving like a common mudblood," she spits it out in haste (she doesn't mean it but her heart is shattering and she thinks she may as well wound him with the pieces) and is turning her back when she is being spun around so quickly that her things go flying. And then there is the familiar sting of a hand across her face (and she isn't surprised because they've been here before and it's like she's doomed to do the same things over and over). Tears blur her vision as her jaw throbs and blood trickles in her mouth where her teeth cut her cheek.

"Don't you ever call me that," he is seething and a part of her is a bit pleased to see that she can get him so worked up (all she wants is the pieces of him for herself). She shrugs in defiance but takes a step back as he begins to shake. He steps forward and she backwards and they perform this time old dance until her back is against the hard wall and he is surrounding her, "Don't forget that you are _mine _and I will not tolerate these little games of yours."

"I'm yours?" she whispers because she really does want to be his (she wants him to want her and love her and keep her forever) even if she knows she shouldn't. And she knows she's letting him get off to easily, again (and she knows it's all wrong, all so wrong) but she knows this is how it is for girls like her. For girls like her and her mother and his mother and this is the way it plays out for them (written in the stars, in their souls, it's as part of them as their blood is) so she will take it like the lady she is and she will hide it behind closed doors and the shadows as she should (as she was taught).

"You're mine," he repeats lowly and then his lips are bruising her in a kiss. His teeth clash against hers and the blood trickling out in her mouth is swirled around by his tongue, "Mine." He murmurs and she nuzzles into his neck.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes (somehow she's always the one apologizing even when she knows it's wrong, all wrong). In the back of her mind there is a voice begging her to stop the madness, screaming that she's not meant for this but she hushes it. Because she knows the truth. Knows that he loves her and she loves him and if she could just be a bit better he wouldn't have to do these things and that if she can stand by his side and love him (love him the way he deserves) that he will fight past the demons and they can live out the perfect ending that they (he) deserves.

"You're forgiven. Go to bed, I'll send up a elf with something to help with your cheek," he kisses her forehead then and it feels like an apology (the most she'll ever get and maybe some diamonds and flowers) and she nods her head before gathering her things and walking up the stairs.

Later on she'll see the bruises cover her arms in the shape of his fingerprints. They bloom like flowers (she thinks she prefers them to the flowers, the flowers die and just remind her of what can happen but they stay in the shape of his fingertips and mark her as his own) across her pale skin but she doesn't mind. She'll think back to the fight and the things they said and she'll promise herself not to anger him so and she'll be pleased at being called his. And when the doubts and fear and anger niggle at the back of her mind she'll push it down (she's good at this, she's had so much practice after all).

She notices that she's always his but he is never hers, she thinks maybe that he'll never be hers and that hurts much more than the bruises ever do.

…

He is not a boy of spontaneity but it's okay because she's never been the type of girl who falls for surprises. Except for when he decides to surprise her because somehow he makes all the bad things good and all the good things better. He is still such a shiny bright boy to her (always will be in her mind) and he seems to shed that light on everything he touches.

They are studying in his dormitory one night while all the other boys are away and she is concentrating (he is so very brilliant and she just so desperately wants to be worthy) on the seemingly foreign words in her potions book as she sprawls across his bed. He is sitting at his desk and she is (for once) not letting the beautiful lines and edges of his shoulders and back distract her. So she is downright startled when he noisily stands from the chair. His smile is so very bright that it steals the breath from her lungs.

"Draco what, dare I may ask, are you doing?" she asks confusedly because it is usually him telling her to stop yammering so he can get some work done. His smile widens as he stalks over to her then he holds out his hand dramatically.

"Would the lady care to dance?" his voice is as soft as velvet and as smooth as silk and she is clay in his hands. She can feel herself blush and she is still so very confused because he is not the type of boy to do this and her brain is still a bit foggy from all the reading she's been doing.

"Draco, we're studying," she stammers and she feels so foolish (she hates feeling foolish in front of him, as if it'll point out to him how much better he can do) and for some unexplainable reason, she feels the urge to cry.

"Pansy, I'd like to dance with you, my Flower Queen," she blushes and grasps his hand and he's pulling her up and then twirling her around the room. He's an extraordinary dancer but she's known this forever (somehow it's all so different when it's just him and her twirling in a room with nobody to impress) and they move together so effortlessly. He spins and dips and twirls her in circles and she giggles and he chuckles and smiles adorn their faces. It's sweet the way things so rarely can be and love swells inside her until is practically seeping all over.

"I love you, Draco," she breathlessly declares as he spins her again and her skirt fans around her so perfectly.

"I love you too, Pansy," he smiles at her and in this moment, in this moment she truly believes him because in this moment she can feel it. She can feel it spread all throughout her body and he dances with her even as the sun sets and the room is cast in a red glow. He dances with her even after and their only light is the brilliant moon and twinkling of stars. They dance and dance and it's like love only more (and she never thought there could be more than love but there is him and he is more than perfection so she supposes she should have known that he could create new emotions).

She is almost certain that she could spend forever twirling around in his arms.

…

Sixth year is what she imagines hell on earth must have been. She is a follower of the Dark Lord because (she has never really had a choice) he represents what is right and good. But she thinks that the dark ink on his arm steals away his brightness bit by bit. She remembers so clearly how in the beginning she would trace it with her fingertips as he would animatedly talk about the Dark Lord and the things he says and how very important he is to the so very noble cause. She does not mind so much then. Even though his voice sometimes shakes and she can hear the echoes of fear at the edge she doesn't mind so very much because mostly there is excitement.

And it gives her the opportunity to really shine for him. After all she has always been good at scheming and devising plans (it is her duty as a Pureblood future wife to be talented in such things). So they think of ways, ways to fulfill his duty and move on with the better things (the safer things).

Only then he stops talking so much and when she goes to trace the edges of the ink marring his (once) beautiful, bright, perfectly (painfully) snow white of his flesh, he flinches and cringes and she starts to hate the Dark Lord and the way he steals from his followers and opposition alike. She can't say it out loud though because it is such a very dangerous time (and she is angry because why must she worry about war when she should be worrying about dresses and balls and pretty girl things).

He disappears for hours at a time and walks hurriedly all around the castle, looking for him in every nook and cranny and she can never quite find him. And when he finally shows up again he is brooding and dark and he never wants to talk or listen to her chatter and she wouldn't mind so much if it weren't for the way his eyes were turning colder and his face more gaunt. She wishes he would let her take care of him (he is the most important thing and she doesn't know how to fix him back together and it's tearing her into bits and pieces).

She finally catches him in the hall one day and she grasps his arm (the arm with the ink that's seeping into him and poisoning him) and he flinches and she wants to scream but instead she very calmly asks, "Where are you going?"

"I'm not going anywhere of importance to you," he says back so politely, as if they were strangers instead of lovers (and she hates how easily he breaks her into bits and pieces of confetti and tosses her into the air so uncaringly). And she wants to shout at him. Kick him and hit him and tell him that everything about him is of importance to her because she loves him and she cares (but it's another thing the ink has stolen from him so she can't say a damn thing).

"Well won't you stay with me? I have been so lonely lately. You've been gone so often and I'm not quite sure I know what to do without you," she tries to say it lightly, she even giggles at the end and she wants him so badly to believe that she could be fine on her own but her own voice betrays her. It cracks and she sounds so very desperate and needy for him (and it's the truth but she does hate admitting it). He looks at her with an intensity that makes her want to shrink and fold into herself, makes her want to wilt away.

"I'll stay," he doesn't add the for tonight but it's there nonetheless. She grabs his hand and holds on tightly and they just walk around the corridors. She spends the entire night fighting the tears behind her eyelids. She feels so very heavy (as if she is carrying the weight of his darkness on her shoulders and maybe she is and she'd do so happily if it would lighten his own pain but instead they are both suffering) and she feels so very old.

His hand laced in hers fits so very perfectly but instead of bringing her comfort, it only brings her dread because he's slowly slipping from her and she doesn't know how to get him back. Doesn't know how to ease his burden, how to save a condemned man. At one point she whispers every so softly (but loud enough for him to hear in the bitter, echoing of the empty halls) that she loves him but is only met with silence. She is losing him because he is falling into a darkness that not even she has ever known (and she has known so many darknesses that if she could be surprised anymore she supposes she would be). She is tumbling after him because that is the fate of a woman that loves him like she does. Or maybe it is the fate of a woman who never had a future besides the one he decided on (the fate of a woman who has never known having control, only being possessed by it).

All she knows is that she cannot save him from the fate that the ink has brought him and since she cannot save him, there is no hope for her.

…

She sees him years later after the war (after the devastation is brought is merely a memory to most) and he is with his wife and she is with her small daughter. She bumps (of course, always such a clumsy, foolish girl) into him and turns around to apologize but then it's him and she can't quite remember how to breathe (in and out, it all seems so complicated now). "Oh, hello," she manages to gasp out and she hates how breathy she sounds, how obvious she is (he has to know, has to know that she never stopped loving him).

"Hello, how are you?" he questions politely and her hand begins to shake and daughter looks up at her with questioning eyes (but she doesn't say a thing but she has been taught oh so well).

"I am well, and you?" she sounds just like she always does. She is a woman now, she is refined and elegant and everything a pureblood wife should be (but on the inside he makes her feel like a little girl who doesn't quite deserve his brightness).

"We are doing great," he wraps his arm around his beaming wife and it's then that she notices the swell under her dress and the glow that seems to surround the oh so lovely couple (and her throat tightens until she thinks she just may choke because that was supposed to be her).

"Congratulations," she says instead and her smile is painted on (but nobody has ever really known the difference anyways), "I am so happy for you. Children are such precious gifts." She looks down at her own daughter and her smile feels more strained as her daughters dark blue eyes gaze back at her adoringly (and she hates herself for thinking they're all wrong).

"Yes, we're so thrilled," his wife starts to gush and she begins to feel faint, as if the world is too bright and too fast and there isn't possibly enough oxygen for them all.

"Well not to be rude, but we really must be going or we're going to be late in meeting my husband," she continues to smile oh so politely (it's all she ever does and it makes her think she just may stretch the skin until it cracks and then they'll all see her shameful truths).

"Of course, have a good day," he nods and then they're turning away and she's walking towards her husband with her daughter in tow and she's trying so very desperately not to cry. Then a hand is gripping her arm and twirling her around (it'd feel like déjà vu but this time is so much gentler) and she's facing him again.

"Pansy, I'm… I'm sorry, for everything," he whispers. She looks into his eyes and she notices they're not steely anymore and she thinks it's unfair. She always seen the brightness in him and she took his callous words and cold hands with him because she was so in love with blinding perfection of him and now it's like he's faded a bit and she'd still love him but he's with somebody else and it's really not fair at all.

"It's fine Draco, it's fine," she murmurs back. He smiles and nods. He turns and walks away and she lets him and watches him go. But it's not fine. Not even a little. Because her daughter has the wrong colored eyes and her bruises bloom like flowers into the shape of somebody else's fingertips and she tried so very hard and it meant nothing. She still loves him and he loves somebody else and his brightness isn't hers to keep anymore.

When he disappears into the crowd she straightens her shoulders and turns her chin upwards. She can sense her daughter (her little puppet and sometimes she wishes she wasn't a mother because her daughter is beautiful and she will ruin her like she ruins everything) straighten up too. They walk with the rigid elegance of upper society towards the direction of her husband and she promises herself that she will no longer dwell on pretty lies from long ago and dreams that were forever shattered decades before (maybe before she was born, she was not meant for greatness after all). She promises herself (and it's a lie before it even enters her mind) that she will let him go even if that means she'll never get to truly love somebody again.

Here's the thing, it's not really her fault. It's just the way these things turn out for her.


End file.
